


A Talkative Sort of a Witch

by redsnake05



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Cooking, Gen, Magic, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: Charmain cooks dinner after their long, exhausting, lubbockin-filled day at the Palace. She hopes she's learned enough about herself, and about magic, not to make a complete mess of it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



> I couldn't bring myself to have Charmain make disastrous chicken soup, but I loved the thought of her integrating her new witchery and ideas into some moderately successful cooking.

"You're a talkative sort of a witch, my dear," said Great-Uncle William. Charmain looked at him guiltily; she actually thought she had been rather quiet as they walked home. She certainly had enough to think about, and Great-Uncle William's great sled chair was magically whisking along briskly enough that she wasn't sure she could talk much without wheezing.

"Oh, I don't mean like that. I am sure your fondness for books makes you, like me, a person prone to lengthy periods of silence, and, indeed, a tendency to completely forget the world around you. I mean your actual witchiness, so to speak, appears to be talkative."

Charmain looked at him doubtfully. She wasn't entirely sure what that meant, and also wasn't really sure she knew him well enough to ask. She was still in something of a daze after the events of the day and couldn't quite be certain she wouldn't be packed back off to her parents to be scolded for not being respectable enough for the rest of her life. Besides, they were now heading up a slope and she needed all her spare energy for breathing. Fortunately, Great-Uncle William did not seem to mind her silence and continued talking in his gentle, unhurried voice.

"We will need to work on it more, of course, but you seem rather more like your magic is based on will and conversation, like some of my delightful hedge-witch colleagues. That's not to say, of course, that you cannot learn from incantation. No, indeed…"

Charmain listened in increasing dismay as Great-Uncle William started to hold forth on the exact differences between wizards and the various types of magic they practiced. It all sounded so complicated, when she was really still coming to grips with the idea of magic at all. Now it seemed she was going to have to learn all sorts of theories and ritual practices, and the proper way to hold a wand during certain arcane processes, when all she really wanted to do was have a quiet lie down on the sofa with a book.

Before Charmain could simply turn and run back home, the garden gate loomed up and Great-Uncle William stopped talking as she opened it. She squeezed the chair through the front door and hoped that he would forgive any lingering disorder. It had been a rather frazzled few days. He didn't seem to notice that anything was the matter. Peeping around the back of the chair, Charmain hoped the kitchen would not be a shock. 

"I'll go straight to the library, if you don't mind, my dear," he said. "I wish to start working on my revised knowledge of the Elfgift immediately. Perhaps, for tonight, you can manage dinner? Tomorrow, of course, we will need to make a plan."

Charmain wondered how the two of them - and Peter, of course - could possibly make a plan that would actually work. She knew, vaguely, that her father had one at the bakery that told everyone what tasks they should do and in what order. On the other hand, she supposed the alternative was a plan made by Peter's mother, who had promised to deliver him to Great-Uncle William in the morning. Charmain repressed a shudder at the thought of how ruthless, practical and detailed such a plan would be. She would rather muddle through with the three of them, however vague they might be.

"A plan sounds good, Great-Uncle William," she said. "I am not very good at cooking, but I will do my best to make dinner."

"It's just what I've been saying, dear. I am sure any magic you do will come out just as you intend it, no matter how you go about it." He sent his chair through the door and disappeared. Charmain put Waif down and they went into the kitchen together. 

She looked around. The taps were back, so that was one good thing. The washing bags did not appear to have returned, and that was another. The best thing of all, from Charmain's point of view, was that the dirty dishes had gone. She supposed it was the kobolds, and was extremely grateful. She would have to be very nice to the next one she saw, though not, of course, if it was Rollo.

Sitting down at the table, she considered her options. She remembered how Peter's Mother had gotten the breakfast she wanted, and wondered whether she could make use of that to be more specific about what she wanted for dinner. That still, of course, wouldn't solve the problem of her not knowing what to do with the ingredients once she had them.

At her feet, Waif whined and Charmain reached down to her and smiled as Waif licked her fingers. Then Waif barked sharply and dragged an empty bag over, waving her tail in excitement. Charmain stared at her stupidly for a moment before realising it was one of the bags from her father's bakery, and that made her think of the cookbooks.

"You're right, Waif!" she said. "How could I forget? It seems so long ago." Charmain couldn't even contemplate how much had happened since then, or how much she'd learned and seen and done. She almost seemed to be an entirely different person. She picked up both the bag and Waif and ruffled Waif's ears. 

"If I'm a completely different person, then I can figure out how to cook," she said to Waif. "After all, books are something I do understand, and being a conversational witch seems to me an excellent place to start with food, no matter what Great Uncle William's feelings about hedges."

Waif licked her chin in encouragement and, Charmain was sure, hunger. She put her back down again and found the books tucked away tidily on the shelf. Sitting down, she flipped through one until she found a recipe for chicken soup. She loved chicken soup, especially made by her father. It was the epitome of comfort and routine, and just what she felt she needed. She'd always had it when sick, too, so she supposed it couldn't be bad for Great-Uncle William in his delicate state. 

She read through the list of ingredients, then the instructions, then her father's notes, and refused to be daunted by any of them. She wasn't going to rush off, thinking she knew what to do. She'd seen what had happened with Peter, and was mortified to think of her first, impulsive experiments with magic. She was excellent at reading, and, bar a few ingredients she'd never heard of before and had to look up in a hastily-fetched dictionary, she made short work of the recipe.

"Right," she said, looking down at Waif, "I think that if I ask for dinner, politely, and list the ingredients, then I should get them. Hopefully." She considered for a moment. "I might put down a chopping board, for the chicken." Waif barked encouragingly and Charmain felt reassured, and also ridiculously practical, but this seemed to be the sort of thing that briskly efficient people would do, so she would do it too. 

"Dinner, please," she said, and quickly listed the ingredients she wanted. She held her breath, Waif whining gently at her feet, and breathed out with a sigh of relief as the various things dropped onto the table with clatters, thuds, and, in the case of the chicken, a splat. She prodded at it doubtfully, but was not deterred from her purpose. 

Waif sat on the hearth and cocked her head as she watched Charmain dig through the cupboards and drawers. As she gathered all the things together, she remembered her father doing this, back when she was much younger and the family rather less respectable. He had put her up on the counter with him and explained what he was doing with each step. She realised, now, that some of that must have been magic, too, as he coaxed what he wanted from each ingredient and each dish. She could see how his magic had been about balance and happiness, and that gave her the confidence to speak gently to her utensils, and to share with them what she wanted the outcome to be. 

She chopped the chicken and the vegetables by hand, but the stove lit by magic, and she asked the pot to please try not to stick. She made rather a mess of the butter and flour at first, but she hoped the lumps would come out like she'd told them to. It was only after she put the wooden spoon down, soup simmering contentedly, that she realised that she'd almost certainly made something edible.

Even a day or two ago, she would have been delighted and triumphant, or else impatient of the effort she'd had to put in, or resentful of the demands on her time. She just felt a quiet satisfaction, though, at figuring out something for herself. Waif gave a little bark of encouragement and tried to scramble up onto her knee as Charmain sat down with a cup of tea. Charmain hoisted her up and scratched her ears. Great-Uncle William came into the kitchen. He was hobbling with a stick instead of using his sled chair, but he waved away Charmain's anxious gesture to help.

"Something smells delicious, my dear," he said. 

"Thank you," she replied. "I hope it tastes as good. It's nearly done."

"While we wait," he said, "perhaps you can tell me what happened to my washing. I am certain I never had so many and varied pink-patterned shirts before."

Charmain realised just how very odd his washing must seem, and that made her realise that not everything was going to change overnight. She was still going to be hopelessly impractical, and Peter was still going to be rather too thoughtless, and somehow they would muddle through. It made everything seem delightfully normal, and she prepared to tell the full story while they waited for the soup to be ready.


End file.
